


The Pocket Watch Mystery

by Kako_Pumpkin



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Crime, Gen, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-07
Updated: 2012-11-07
Packaged: 2017-11-18 04:32:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/556926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kako_Pumpkin/pseuds/Kako_Pumpkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr John Watson narrates the tale of the missing pocket watch; a notable case in that it managed to distract Sherlock Holmes from boredom for longer than thirty seconds.</p>
<p>(Also available on fanfiction.net under Hatheny Lurey Dralaw)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pocket Watch Mystery

It was quite a wet Thursday afternoon when I returned from a lengthy and trying house call to Baker Street, where I looked forward to resting next to the large fire with a strong pot of hot tea and my regular newspaper. Upon entrance, however, the vision of a cosy and peaceful household I had used to shy away the cold and damp whilst on call was shattered upon meeting with a stormy-faced Mrs Hudson coming down the stairs, an untouched tray of cold tea and biscuits in her hands. She threw me one dark look before vanishing into the kitchen, muttering disparaging comments about 'her other tenant' under her breath. Bewildered and more than a little trepidatious, I advanced up the stairs and entered the usual room, seeing Holmes sitting very still in his chair with a grimace on his face, staring directly at a rather delicious-looking apple pie. My expression must have made it entirely obvious that I was thoroughly confused and quite curious as to what had transpired, for Holmes began to speak immediately without prompting on my part.

"As you'll see, Watson," he smiled ruefully. "I have encountered the wrath of Mrs Hudson in apparently scorning her exceptional skills and ability in the art of baked goods."

"I would say 'wrath' is a bit harsh; however, she did seem a little irritated when I came in," I said, leaning back into the familiar comfort of my armchair. "What on earth have you done this time?"

"As I said before – I apparently scorned her skills earlier today. You see, I made the mistake of mentioning in front of her that I was in desperate need of an apple pie. However, when she offered to bake me one herself (she being so surprised that I actually desired food), I let slip that one of hers simply wouldn't do. Given the particulars of the case and my own distraction, I was unable to correct the unintended slight – indeed, I have probably worsened the situation by further insisting that I was completely and utterly uninterested at this time in any baked goods she has to offer."

"You accidentally insulted her baking skills?"

"Indeed."

"Oh dear."

"Quite."

"Well, what was the case about?" I asked, pushing worry aside for the moment and eying the apple pie speculatively. Holmes smiled again, his fingers still steepled before his face.

"I am afraid that a sampling of that admittedly delicious-smelling apple pie shall have to wait, Watson – it's for my client, who shall be here shortly. As for the case…well, it's a rather curious case, I think you'll find. It's curious in that it was so utterly simple in its construction, while yet containing the qualities of what I'm sure you at least would consider an engaging mystery."

"Do tell," I encouraged, leaning forward with interest. As Holmes opened his mouth, however, a great knocking on the door rang out and Holmes' head darted out, his eyes gleaming.

"Our guest, Watson!" he exclaimed, standing abruptly. "He's early. You'll find out all in due time, not to worry."

Eventually the door opened by a stiff Mrs Hudson, who merely gave Holmes one severe, beady-eyed look before turning out of the room without a word. The guest, a young man in his twenties, stood forward hesitantly. He had a pleasant, common sort of face that could be seen in any street in London, his only defining characteristic a very sharp nose that poked out over a ragged push-broom moustache. His clothes were rather plain and well-worn, though perfectly clean and tidy, his only adornment a rather fetching silver tie pin.

"Mr Harrington, I presume?" welcomed Holmes, ushering their guest into another seat close to the fire. "I do believe I have you to thank for the sadly brief and moderately entertaining circumstance that distracted my mind from the eternal danger ennui presents."

"No – I – pardon?" Mr Harrington had an unusually high voice which quavered with confusion as his eyebrows creased and his head darted to and fro between my chair and Holmes's figure standing next to the table. "I'm afraid I don't understand – and how on earth did you know my name?"

"I wasn't expecting anyone else today, of course, Mr Harrington," replied Holmes. "Apple pie?"

"What? Oh – no, no thank you, I've just eaten. I must confess I rather dislike the taste of apples personally…no. Wait. How on earth did you know who I was? And that I would visit you today?"

"Well, it's quite simple really," said Holmes, taking his own seat and painstakingly lighting his pipe. "You see, it's the way you knocked on the door."

"What?"

"Not to mention the fact that your shoes are thoroughly scuffed."

"Well, I don't see how –"

"You see," Holmes barrelled on once his pipe was thoroughly lit and the smoke began to stream in steady puffs. "The Harrington estate is quite large, but remarkably poor. Circumstances have worsened with every passing year until the great manor house had to have sections shut off due to disrepair."

"It's true," said Mr Harrington, distracted from his queries by the reminder of his woes. He hung his head miserably, lacing and unlacing his pale clammy fingers. "I've tried to find funding, but the support simply doesn't exist. I've even resorted to peddling the contents of the house at auction in order to raise money – it's pitifully bare compared to what it was. It's a horrible situation, simply horrible. It's an utter travesty that it has come to this really – people just don't seem to care that the house is a site of historical importance! Why, in the early years of her reign, Queen Victoria herself dined within the great halls and conversed with my father and mother regarding different subjects. My father even designed pieces of jewellery for the royal family, although they were never worn in the end…but he was a great man!"

"Goodness!" I exclaimed. "He entertained the Queen herself?"

"Father was quite well-to-do in those times," said Mr Harrington, his misery returning and his pride and enthusiasm regarding the past vanishing into nothingness. "Of course, we were cheated out of a particularly lucrative mine in South America…and then there was the scandal with the forgeries…"

"Ah – the terrible story about the fortune in jewels bought from a Norwegian firm that turned out to be fakes…" Holmes mused to himself. "A rather petty case, as I recall."

"We lost thousands…" Mr Harrington sighed, his voice edging with choked-up tears. "Thousands. Father never recovered. Neither did mother, or the house. My sister, thankfully, had been married for several years before that incident, to a tradesman whose business was completely unaffiliated with the jewel scandal. She was quite unaffected – er, financially, in any case."

"Indeed. Well, in any case, your estate – I believe it is yours, upon the passing of your parents?" asked Homes.

"Yes…yes…" said Mr Harrington morosely.

"My condolences," I added.

"Thank you."

"The house, as I was saying," continued Holmes, barrelling through the traditional social niceties. "Is inhabited by yourself and a few elderly servants who remain loyal to your family. It is well-barricaded from the inside out to prevent possible thievery due to the continued residency of several valuable items, and only a relatively small portion is still used. Your shoes are thoroughly scuffed, as I said before – but they are scuffed in a particular way that does not imply transit through a smooth pathway or even the cobbles of a London street. No – gravel, muck and bark, all of which are a part of an unkempt path. You have valiantly tried to keep them clean, but the score-marks are quite clear."

Mr Harrington glanced worriedly at his shoes, the hint of shame in his features melting into relief when I smiled kindly and murmured, "Not to worry – Holmes operates with quite a different definition of the phrase 'quite clear'. Your shoes are perfectly fine."

"You take the kitchen entrance as your front door now," said Holmes, tapping out his pipe. "There is no door knocker or lock on the outside, due to the fact that in previous times the door was always open during the day so that the cook or whomever could access the vegetable and herb garden without hindrance, so you must resort to pounding heavily on the door to gain entrance. This is why you knocked so heavily on our door earlier today; the habit is ingrained into you. It's quite an extraordinary circumstance, you know, and I do believe it is unique to your household."

Mr Harrington's mouth hung open in abject astonishment, as speechless as many others who had previously been subjected to Holmes' brilliant deductions. As always, his method was precise, clear and utterly simplistic once revealed.

"That's astounding!" exclaimed Mr Harrington.

"Yes, indeed," said Holmes nonchalantly, puffing his pipe. "Of course, it helps that I've seen your face in the newspaper before and noticed you dithering for a good twenty minutes on the other side of the street before you decided to come in."

Mr Harrington deflated utterly, resuming his miserable appearance. I stood abruptly, taking pity in the man, and went to Holmes, whispering, "I say, Holmes, go easy on him – he seems to have had a difficult time of it."

"Perhaps," replied Holmes. "But trust me when I say that no-one has had a more difficult time of it than his servants, and possibly his sister."

"What on earth do you mean, old boy?"

"All will become clear in time, dear Watson," he said, turning once again to our guest. "Now, Mr Harrington – you have come to me with a problem, have you not?"

"Indeed I have, Mr Holmes," said Mr Harrington. "Misfortune seems to dog my very footsteps. You see, one of few masterpieces my father had left behind him has inexplicably gone missing. It was meant to be sold at auction next Monday – its worth is quite substantial, and I had hoped to raise a large amount of money for the manor and grounds with its sale. But now that it's missing…"

"How unfortunate!" I exclaimed. "What was it? A necklace? A brooch?"

"A pocket watch, actually, Mr Watson," said Mr Harrington, fumbling in his pockets. "I have a picture – ah! Here it is."

He handed the photo to Holmes and we both examined it carefully. The picture showed a very serious-looking woman, wrapped tightly in a shawl, her hair severely pulled back into a bun. In her hand she held a small silver pocket watch on a thin chain, the numbers on the face very clear despite the graininess of the photograph. It looked to be a very finely made pocket watch, a thought I voiced to Mr Harrington.

"Yes, it was," he agreed. "Truly masterful. My father designed and made it entirely himself, despite having no previous knowledge of clock-making. It was for my parents' twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, as a gift to my mother."

"And this is your mother?" asked Holmes, indicating to the photograph.

"Yes."

"And the pocket watch has great sentimental value to you?"

"Well…strictly speaking, not particularly. To me, the house is of far more cultural importance. It has stood for over a hundred years!"

"I see. Well, Mr Harrington, I can quite positively declare the case solved."

"You can?" Our guest jumped to his feet, visibly delighted. "Then you know where it is?"

"I do indeed. In fact, I have it in my possession. The case has been solved since early this morning."

"Outstanding! Fantastic! Well, where is it?"

"I have it in my possession. Unfortunately, I'm afraid I must ultimately decline to give it to you."

Mr Harrington stopped, as still as a statue his mouth hanging open in shock.

"Holmes!" I exclaimed. "Why on earth won't you give him his lost pocket watch? That's what he travelled all this way for!"

"Quite simply put, Watson, it was not lost by him; it was stolen. And I refuse to deal in stolen goods."

"Stolen?" spluttered Mr Harrington, regaining his voice, his offence at Holmes's insinuation clear across his face – any man, especially of noble stock, would despise any impingement on their honour. Indeed, I would have been offended on Mr Harrington's behalf, had he not reacted in such a vociferous manner. "Stolen? I'll have you know that I own every inch of that manor and everything in it, as heir to the Harrington estate – including that pocket watch!"

"That fact is, Mr Harrington, that you do not actually own anything at all, given the particulars Inspector Lestrade provided me with earlier today. Incidentally, you may wish to investigate your solicitor, whom I suspect has been bleeding you dry for every last penny you can possibly provide. Although, given certain discrepancies about your person, I have my suspicions that you have a great deal of knowledge regarding the actions of your solicitor – do you not, Mr Harrington?"

"What – you – sir! Just what are you implying about me? And how dare you imply that my solicitor is any less than most honourable! He has been managing the Harrington affairs since my father's time –"

"And indeed, how interesting it is that an intelligent and dedicated man would ever buy jewels without checking them himself first. It was your solicitor who bought them, wasn't it? Not your father, though his money was used. Isn't it interesting that despite the bad times and association with the failing Harrington name, Jameson, Jameson and Mulligan Solicitors still manage to find time to pay that expensive rent for an city centre office? Not to mention those townhouses, the horses, the mistresses and Jameson Sr.'s gambling addiction to say the least. No, Mr Harrington, you haven't actually owned anything for years – not, of course, that it makes any difference to you who actually owns the land, eh? So long as you can profit from it."

"Wh – what – you –"

"Well, Mr Harrington?"

"Holmes!" I exclaimed. "Just what on earth are you saying?"

"More interesting indeed that every snippet of information turns up only the detail 'Norwegian firm'," added Holmes mercilessly, ignoring my question. "Never any name of the company or receipt of transaction. Norway is not exactly known for its gemstone business, but it is rather conveniently far away, is it not? Those fake gems had to come from somewhere, though. Where did you get that lovely tie pin, by the way – German, perhaps, by the looks of that filigree edge?

Mr Harrington paled abruptly, staring at Holmes with a slowly dawning expression of fear on his face. I glanced at Holmes; his face was carved from stone and fearsome to see. When I looked to Mr Harrington I saw only a small, shivering shell of a man held in terror with each intimation Holmes revealed.

"I suppose the last straw was the pocket watch, Mr Harrington. Can you even imagine how utterly tragic it must have been for the servants working at the manor, to watch one by one as you fruitlessly sold heirlooms of the family to try and support a useless endeavour? The strength of your convictions caused your sister and her husband to move far away from you, thereby removing the possibility that anything truly of value could be saved from your 'fundraising'. But the pocket watch, Mr Harrington, the pocket watch…"

"What about the pocket watch – it belongs to me and I will have it!" snapped Mr Harrington.

"It does not, Mr Harrington. You would do well to leave the pocket watch behind and disappear quietly, forgetting all about it, England, and your manor. I am a discreet person, you know. There does not have to be a scandal. But if you do not leave this, I can personally guarantee you that you will not leave this world unscathed."

Mr Harrington froze. "What – what do you mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean. Did you truly hope to fool Sherlock Holmes? To use me in order to further your own criminal designs? Did you think that I, above all people, would never find you out? I do wonder sometimes, what goes through the minds of men like you – the men who come to me, hoping to engage my interest, to utilise me as though I were a simple tool in their criminal acts. Despite my reputation, they still flock to me, hoping to outsmart me in order to escape justice. Well I tell you now, Mr Harrington, there has only been one man in this world who has matched my intellect, and he is currently at the bottom of a lake."

I was quite transfixed at that moment, the image forever burned into my mind; Holmes as rigid and deadly as a knife and Mr Harrington, still and pale as a white rabbit facing the sharpened teeth of a predator.

"There does not have to be a scandal," repeated Mr Harrington, almost inaudibly.

"No, Mr Harrington, there does not," replied Holmes, and with that, Mr Harrington leapt from his seat and fled the room. After a moment the door resounded with a mighty bang as it shut, followed shortly by Mrs Hudson's intense scolding as she berated the manners of our former guest. Holmes exhaled loudly and sat in his favourite chair, relighting his pipe.

"Perhaps I should not have been so harsh," said Holmes, once his pipe was lit and he had pulled from it a few times. "But the arrogance of lesser minds does try my patience so."

"Holmes – what on earth was that about?"

"Fraud, Watson," replied my friend, giving a straight answer for once. "Mr Harrington is quite unsavoury. Never trust a man with an irregular moustache, old boy. A man's outer appearance reveals everything about his temperament and nature. His moustache was decidedly uneven. Why even bother having a moustache if one is not inclined to properly care for it?"

I twitched my own perfect moustache with satisfaction, secure in the knowledge that it was wholly regular in every way. Then the confusion set in and I exclaimed, "Fraud? How on earth –"

"They weren't exactly being subtle about it, dear Watson – Lestrade requested a few months ago that I discreetly look into the situation. Our Mr Harrington has been working for years in tandem with the solicitors to undermine his father's estate in order to take the money, utterly bankrupt it so they wouldn't have to pay any more taxes, then escape to Europe or America with their ill-gotten gains."

"Good heavens..."

"Yes, indeed - a fairly routine situation, executed in a rather cunning manner, wasn't it? It was clear to me the moment the Inspector mentioned the size of the estate and the age of the house. Given the amount of finance needed to maintain a large estate and manor house, coupled with the bad finances of the Harrington family, it was clear the banks owned everything - on paper. Had Mr Harrington and his solicitors filed for bankruptcy or been unable to make repayments as most in their situation is wont to do, the bank would have taken everything, including the valuables inside. But to avoid claiming bankruptcy? Make the minimum repayments? And meanwhile to sell every last inch of valuable ware in the house? Why else would he be so adamant to hold on to a rotting manor? To claim it has intense cultural importance while at the same time gutting the inside of anything valuable to sell at auction seems a little strange, does it not?"

"And you let him get away?"

"Of course not; I only said that I could be discreet and there did not have to be a scandal. Inspector Lestrade has two dozen men placed strategically across the city, ready to apprehend the miscreants once they make a run for it."

"I see…" I sat back in wonder of these revelations. "But then, what about the pocket watch?"

"It was left to his sister by his mother. A sentimental item on the mother's side usually finds its way to the daughter as opposed to the son. Technically it belonged to him due to the inheritance, but he retained ownership of everything else – why go through the trouble of trying to claim ownership of a simple pocket watch that was all his sister had left of his mother? It smacks of greed and pettiness, Watson. As I said, it was probably the last straw for one of the servants. Most likely the cook, now that I think of it."

"So one of the servants stole it and sent it to the sister?"

"Yes, indeed. Which reminds me – I must send a message to Mrs Elsbeth Whitaker. Her errant apple pie took some time to track down. Thankfully it was quite unharmed during its travels."

As I stared at the apple pie lying innocently on the table, little wheels and cogs began to turn one by one in my mind until finally they all clicked into place. I turned again to Holmes, who was regarding me with a small smile and a twinkle in his eye.

"Put it together yet, my friend?" he asked, detaching his hands from their steeple.

"I say, Holmes," I said cautiously. "The pocket watch is in the apple pie, isn't it?"

"Indeed it is, Watson! You have it perfectly; well done," Holmes smiled, straightening his back and nodding to the apple pie. "The cook baked it in the pie and sent it off. The only error in the plan was the slight mishap with the post, which was eventually sorted out."

"Harrington said he disliked apples earlier," I remembered. "He could have searched up and down and torn through the servants quarters and never would have gone near that apple pie. It was well-disguised too; no-one would be able to report that a pocket watch left the house at any time."

"Quite so – an elaborate and rather excessive ruse, but extremely effective nonetheless."

"And this…Mrs Elsbeth Whitaker…she would be Mr Harrington's sister?"

"Exactly. She will have her pocket watch and apple pie safely returned to her by tomorrow morning," smiled Holmes.

"Goodness!" I exclaimed, as thoroughly worn out by the events as though I had been the one deducing. Then again, just trying to keep up with Holmes' wit was usually a taxing effort all by itself. "The only thing left, then, is to capture that rogue Harrington, along with his companions, and to return the pie to Mrs Whitaker."

"There remains one last thing, Watson," said Holmes, eyeing the door with no small amount of trepidation.

"What's that?"

"I must make amends with Mrs Hudson."

I grimaced in sympathy. "Good luck, my friend."

"Thank you, old boy. I shall need it now more than ever."

THE END


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